Gone Haunting in Deadwood (A Deadwood Mystery Book 9)

  Table of Contents

  Start Reading

  Dear Reader

  Cast

  Lead and Deadwood Maps

  Coop’s Map of Slagton

  About the Author

  Contact Information

  More Books by Ann

  Acknowledgments

  Copyright

  Chapters

  1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25

  Dear Reader,

  When I was younger, I spent my days exploring the Black Hills on a dirt bike or with my stepdad in our version of the Picklemobile. I came across many falling-down remains of small mining settlements that were once loud and rowdy but now abandoned, silenced by time. I tiptoed through the decaying structures, walked what remained of outer walls and fence lines, and searched the weeds for evidence of those who had inhabited the area. Sometimes I would just sit under the shade of a pine tree and daydream, looking out over what was left of the civilization that had occupied the land many moons ago.

  Slagton is an amalgamation of several such ghost towns built on veins of silver, tin, or gold ore. When I created it, I wanted to tell you about a different kind of ghost town—one that was still alive under the surface. The sort of ghost town I’d sometimes imagined while sitting under a pine tree, back before I had any clue that my spelunking and exploring were going to be written about in books starring a wild-haired woman with a wicked windmill swing and balls of steel, not to mention her shotgun-toting bodyguard and his nephew, a snarly detective.

  This ninth book in the still-growing Deadwood Mystery Series takes the focus off Deadwood and Lead for a short time, drawing us deeper into the hills to uncover what time has hidden away from the world … or tried to bury until Violet and her big nose came along.

  This book was a fun challenge for me, pushing me to stretch my writing muscles, making me trust the storyteller in my head more than ever, giving me room to explore Black Hills memories I’d stored up from long, long ago (yes, I’m that old).

  I hope that you enjoy reading about Violet’s “long way from ordinary” life as much as I did writing it. I’ll end with a nugget of advice from Old Man Harvey:

  “Just ’cause trouble comes visitin’, doesn’t mean ya have to offer it a place to sit down and take off its boots.”

  ~ Ann

  www.anncharles.com

  To Shelly

  The nicest sister ever!

  (shhh … don’t tell Laura)

  Cast

  **KEY: Character (Book # in which they appear)—Description**

  Violet Lynn Parker (1–9)—Heroine of the series, real estate agent

  Willis “Old Man” Harvey (1–9)—Violet’s sidekick and so-called bodyguard

  Dane “Doc” Nyce (1–9)—Violet’s boyfriend, medium

  Detective “Coop” Cooper (1–9)—Deadwood and Lead’s detective

  Zoe Parker (1–9)—Violet’s aunt and mentor in life

  Layne Parker (1–9)—Violet’s nine-year-old son

  Adelynn Parker (1–9)—Violet’s nine-year-old daughter

  Natalie Beals (1–9)—Violet’s best friend since childhood

  Jerry Russo (4,5,6,7,8,9)—Violet’s boss, owner of Calamity Jane Realty

  Mona Hollister (1–9)—Violet’s coworker and mentor in realty

  Ray Underhill (1–9)—Violet’s coworker and nemesis at work

  Benjamin Underhill (1–9)—Violet’s coworker

  Jane Grimes (1–9)—Violet’s previous boss

  Cornelius Curion (3–9)—Violet’s client; so-called ghost-whisperer

  Reid Martin (2–9)—Captain of the fire dept., Aunt Zoe’s ex-lover

  Jeff Wymonds (1–9)—Violet’s client; dad of Addy’s best friend

  Prudence (2–9)—Ghost who resides at the Carhart/Britton house

  Zelda Britton (2,4–9)—Owner of the Carhart house in Lead

  Tiffany Sugarbell (1–9)—Rival Realtor; Doc’s ex-girlfriend

  Susan Parker (1–9)—Violet’s evil sister; aka “the Bitch from Hell”

  Quint Parker (1–3,7–9)—Violet’s brother; Layne’s hero

  Freesia Tender (5–9)—Owner of the Galena House

  Stone Hawke (5–9)—Coop’s ex-partner; detective called in to solve cases

  Rex Conner (3–9)—Biological father of Violet’s children

  Rosy (6–9)—Camerawoman from TV series called “Paranormal Realty”

  Eddie Mudder (3,6–9)—Owner of Mudder Bros Funeral Parlor

  Dominick Masterson (4,7–9)—Previous client of Violet’s old boss, Jane.

  Mr. Black (2–4,6,8,9)—Mysterious, pale-faced Timekeeper

  Ms. Wolff (5,8,9)—Previous resident of Apt. 4 in the Galena House

  Chapter One

  Friday, December 14th

  Slagton, South Dakota (in the boonies south of Deadwood)

  If Hell had a butt crack, the town of Slagton would be located one freckle north of the sphincter.

  “Not that Slagton can really be called a ‘town’ anymore,” I said aloud, grimacing out the pickup’s passenger-side window at the rusted SLAGTON sign peppered with bullet holes and buckshot. “All that’s left here are the decaying shadows of lives built on silver ore.”

  “Quit yer bellyachin’, Sparky.” My shotgun-toting, self-appointed bodyguard, Ol’ Man Harvey, reached across the front seat and poked me in the ribs. “We’ll be in and out quicker than a greenhorn at a whorehouse.”

  “You two screwups aren’t going inside with me,” Detective Cooper said from the back seat. “Especially not Parker. She’s not even supposed to be here.”

  For once, I agreed with the steely-eyed, often-obstinate detective. Normally, he and I made a habit of ramming our horns together, especially after I solved one of his cases for him, which tended to spur plenty of bristling on his part. But today neither of us wanted me to be joining Cooper and his uncle on this snowy joyride back to Slagton—for good reason, too.

  Decades ago, the EPA had shut down the mine operating outside the town, listing contaminated water among the company’s many crimes against nature. The federal government strongly encouraged the locals to pack up and hit the road, offering financial help to relocate. Most of the folks took the deal, but not all. A few stubborn diehards lingered, peeking out from behind closed curtains with loaded shotguns whenever strangers came calling. Strangers like a hard-headed detective, a cantankerous old man, and a hungover blonde who should have stopped celebrating her best friend’s birthday after the fourth shot of tequila last night.

  “Whether you like it or not, Coop,” said Harvey as he glanced at his nephew in the rearview mirror, “we need Sparky’s help with this mess ya done got us into, and I ain’t talkin’ about her house-sellin’ talents.”

  Cooper cursed under his breath. “First of all, this isn’t a mess. It’s a minor situation that needs clarification in order to determine if it’s even a legitimate problem. Second, I didn’t get you two into anything. You stuck your big nose in my business and now you have it in your whiskey- and women-addled brain that the three of us are some kind of damned team.”

  “My noggin’ ain’t spoiled with whiskey.” Harvey shot me a wink. “I prefer my grandpappy’s homemade hooch with my women.”

  I cringed. “I know too much about your female preferences.” No amount of plugging my ears over the months I’d known Harvey had saved me from the intimate details of his love life, which he shared on a daily basis.

  “Finally,” Cooper continued through gritted teeth, “nothing is going to happen today. I’ll go insid
e alone, interrogate my informant, and then leave. There will be absolutely no sniffing around or gunplay done by either of you while I’m inside.”

  “I don’t have any guns,” I said, wishing I were home in my aunt Zoe’s kitchen nursing one of her hangover concoctions. Better yet, I could be stuffing my cheeks with the molasses cookies she’d been making this morning when I’d left for work instead of visiting a creepy ghost town with Detective Pissypants.

  “I brought two guns,” Harvey told me, frowning at the dilapidated shack up ahead on the left. Smoke seeped from the side of the crumbling chimney. Snow lined the barbed wire fence surrounding the yard and coated the caved-in porch roof. “Better to be safe than sorry back in these here parts of the hills.”

  “I don’t want to see a single footprint in the snow outside of this pickup from either of you. Understand?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Yes, Coop.” I purposely shortened his name, poking the bear.

  “That’s ‘Detective Cooper’ to you, Parker, and you know it.”

  Harvey snickered. “Why’d ya drag us along if all we’re gonna do is sit and count snowflakes?” He slowed as the snow started to fall harder, covering the windshield almost as fast as the wipers could clear it.

  “I didn’t drag you along, Uncle Willis. I asked to borrow your damned pickup. That’s it. You’re the one who showed up at the station with Parker here and refused to remove your stubborn ass even after I threatened to fill it full of lead.”

  “You should have known your uncle would call your bluff. He always kicks your ass at poker.” I glanced over my shoulder at the detective. His blond hair was slicked back this morning. His jaw was rigid, matching his cheekbones. Not even the furry collar on his black police bomber jacket could soften up his chiseled features.

  “Shut up, Parker.” Cooper glared at me. The black eye I’d given him a week ago had finally faded to a dull yellow-green with a few spots of purple.

  “Ya shouldn’t come out here alone,” Harvey told him. “None of us should. Things are gettin’ too hairy. Bessie and Violet will go to the well with ya if shit hits the fan.”

  Bessie was Harvey’s favorite shotgun. She rarely left his side, day or night. “You’re putting me on the same level as Bessie now?” I smiled at the old buzzard with his freshly trimmed beard. “Dang, Harvey, that makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.”

  Harvey grinned back, flashing me his two gold teeth.

  Truth be told, I’d lay my money on Bessie. I was still pretty new at this Executioner gig I’d been born to play. My résumé as a killer was splattered with blood—my own—and had several pages of screwups and near misses listed under Past Experience.

  “I’ve been a cop for close to two decades.” Cooper leaned forward, his head butting into Harvey and my greeting card moment. “I believe I can handle a visit to a backwoods shithole without needing a babysitter.”

  Harvey’s focus returned forward. “You underestimate Slagton, boy. The whangdoodles back here aren’t yer normal sort of agitators.”

  I slunk down in my seat as we passed another rundown shack, this one with oil drums lining the porch. Last time I was here with Harvey, there’d been shotguns holding down those drums, the barrels aimed at the road. The shredded curtains in the window twitched as our tires rolled through the slushy snow now coating the gravel road. For a moment, I thought I saw a ghost of a face behind the window, but a blink later it was gone.

  According to local lore, something still lingered in Slagton besides the contaminated water. Whatever haunted the streets of this ghost town had supposedly added an extra dose of insanity to the people who’d chosen to stay behind. I had no desire to see these “whangdoodles” up close and personal to decide for myself if the rumors about them were true. The bloodthirsty mutants in The Hills Have Eyes had nothing on the Slagton residents. At least that was the story my best friend liked to tell after a hearty dose of liquor at the Purple Door Saloon.

  Natalie and I hadn’t touched on the topic of Slagton last night while celebrating her birthday—at least I didn’t think so. Truth be told, I couldn’t remember much of what happened after our fourth tequila shot. I glanced over my shoulder at Cooper, recalling one particular blurry moment amidst the drinking that involved him, the birthday girl, and a steaming-hot kiss that had left Natalie reeling for several beats. The question was, did Natalie remember that kiss this morning? Or had last night’s tequila overdose completely fogged that memory?

  Cooper grunted, sitting back again. “I’m not wet behind the ears, Uncle Willis.” I glanced over my shoulder. Cooper had his Colt .45 out. He checked the cylinder before stuffing the gun back into his shoulder holster. “I’ve seen and talked to more people back here in Slagton than you have.”

  He looked up, catching me in the middle of a scowl. I couldn’t help it. Cooper and his guns always gave me heartburn. As often as my curly blond hair and I irritated the detective, I figured I’d end up facing off with the wrong end of his pistol one of these days.

  His gaze moved beyond me. “That’s the place up ahead on the right,” he said to his uncle.

  The house sat off the road in the shadows of several pine trees.

  “I’m not talking about the regular folks,” Harvey said, hitting the brakes and pulling into the front yard. He let the engine idle, turning in his seat. “I’m talking about the sort that require a visit from Sparky here and her war hammer.”

  Cooper aimed a frown at me.

  “What did I do?” I held up my hands in surrender.

  “You let this old man drag you along.”

  “Wrong again, Detective. He pulled the wool over my eyes, too. You’ll have to snarl and bark at someone else for now.”

  Harvey had called me at Calamity Jane Realty and told me that he wanted to drive out and look at a place with Cooper. I’d assumed he meant a new home for his nephew now that the sale on the detective’s house was wrapped up. A trip to Slagton was what I got for assuming around Harvey.

  “The day is young,” Cooper said. “It’s pretty much a given that you’ll do something to piss me off before the sun goes down.”

  I stuck my tongue out at him.

  “Real mature, Parker.” He opened the back door. “Neither of you two leave this cab, got it?”

  Harvey grunted.

  I scoffed.

  “Do. You. Understand?” He bit out each word.

  “Yes, Detective Cooper.” I gave my best robot impression.

  “Sheesh, boy. Yer a real buzzkill, you know it?”

  The slam of the pickup door was Cooper’s answer.

  We watched Cooper through the windshield. He strode through the snow toward the drooping front gate that looked like it was one swing from breaking free of its hinges and dying a slow, rusty death in the weeds below. Pausing at the gate, he turned his head slightly as if listening.

  “Did he hear something?” I whispered to Harvey.

  “Between the pickup engine and the muffle of the fallin’ snow, I doubt it.”

  Cooper pushed open the gate. It quivered as it swung, but didn’t keel over. He hesitated at the base of the porch steps, testing each stair before putting his weight on it. The porch sagged, the right end dipping a couple of feet lower than the left. Cooper leaned toward the higher end, standing to the right of the door.

  I couldn’t see through the falling snow if he knocked or not, but I’d reached a count of eleven when the door opened inward.

  Darkness greeted the detective.

  “Do you see anyone?” I asked Harvey.

  “Nope. The butler must be a ghost.”

  If that were true, Cooper would’ve reeled back. He hadn’t learned to control his reaction around the ectoplasmic crowd yet since he’d only recently been “blasted open” by a pair of ghosts during a séance that had taken a turn for the worse. Since that night, his world had been turned upside down and shaken to hell. The ability to see ghosts only added to his crabbiness most days and gave him another reason to g
rowl at me, thanks to my “oops!” part in his eye-opening ordeal.

  After one last glance in our direction, Cooper stepped inside the rundown shack and closed the door behind him. Several clumps of snow fell from the drooping porch roof in his wake.

  The waiting began.

  I chewed on my knuckles. My gut grew heavier by the minute, feeling like I’d swallowed the lump of coal I was probably going to get from Santa this year after all of my grand fuckups.

  Harvey and I sat in silence, both of us watching out the windshield, waiting to see if Cooper would crash out the front door and sprint back to the pickup. At least that’s what I was half-expecting, eerie as the house looked.

  “Have ya ever heard of a woman undertaker in the Old West?” Harvey asked.

  I did a double take, ending with a scowl as I stared at his profile. “No. Why on earth would you ask about an undertaker right now?” I didn’t need any help thinking about death while parked in Slagton.

  He shrugged. “Fer some reason, I keep thinkin’ about a woman gravedigger from way back when. It’s the kookiest thing. I can even picture her in my mind standin’ in the middle of the street in Deadwood.”

  “Well, stop thinking about her until we’re clear of this place,” I snapped.

  “Breathe easy, Sparky. We’ll be back in Deadwood in two shakes.” Harvey shut off the pickup. Apparently, his fight-or-flight meter was pointing in the opposite direction of mine.

  “What are you doing?” I shot him a worried glance, not wanting to take my eyes off the shack for long.

  “Savin’ gas.”

  “Don’t you think we need to keep the engine running in case Cooper is chased out by a one-eyed mutant working a shotgun?”

  His bushy brows drew together. “Girl, why is yer neck bristlin’ so much?”

  “Something doesn’t feel right here.”

  “We’re in Slagton. Not Disneyland. Things haven’t felt right here since the Feds shut ‘er down.”

  “Yeah, but this is different. I’m telling you, there is som—” I gaped at Harvey’s backside as he shoved open his door and stepped out of the pickup. “What are you doing? We’re not supposed to leave the cab.”